


sang the bells

by teaDragon



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Hobbit Holiday Exchange, M/M, Pining, Yule in Erebor, messing with cultures and customs, post-BotFA, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 05:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13093827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/pseuds/teaDragon
Summary: The battle is over and the men and dwarves have wholeheartedly thrown themselves into rebuilding. Yule is fast approaching, and contrary to everything Bilbo expected in the wake of such desolation, it looks to be a grand celebration after all. Hobbits take strength from simple comforts of a warm home and a full table, good company and cheer enough to keep the long cold of winter at bay, and with all this in abundance Bilbo begins to heal from the long perilous months on the road. He slowly realizes he has more reasons to stay in Erebor then to leave it come spring.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stasia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stasia/gifts).



> Happy Holidays Stasia!
> 
> This turned out a bit more...sensory? then I'd expected, but that's hobbits for you, all about the creature comforts. I hope you enjoy it!

The city of Dale loomed ahead of the small boat, its many towers and spires glowing in the deep gray of the early winter night. Only a month ago it had been little more than a ruined battleground, yet now the bustle of a lively city echoed over the water toward them.

“Ho there!” On the docks a man called out to the barge, waving it closer. “Who comes this way?”

“The dwarven delegation returned from Mirkwood!”

“So it is! Be welcomed in Dale.”

A score of dwarves clamored out onto the dock, happy to leave the wooden barge behind for steady earth underfoot. Only one of their party accepted the bargeman’s hand up, a smaller form in a tattered blue coat.

“Why, it’s Master Baggins!” exclaimed the man, helping the hobbit onto the dock.

“Hullo. Master Boris, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. Welcome back! We weren’t sure if you’d turned west for home or not.”

“Oh good heavens, no. Not yet anyway. Had to pop over and speak with the elves and all, couldn’t leave in the middle of a negotiation, could I?”

“We’ll be glad to have you staying.”

“Very kind of you to say.”

“Things are looking up for Dale—for the mountain as well! You’d best be off now, 'afore your dwarves leave without you.”

“Yes, yes, wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

“Off with you, take care!”

Bilbo trotted over to the rest of his party where they stood waiting for him at the entrance to the city proper. It had been just over three weeks since he’d last seen Dale, and a month since the battle of five armies had waged through the barren walls of this city. Everything looked so different now. 

The lands that were once brushed with the first wisps of frost were now buried deep in snow, a blanket of shimmery white laying over everything. Over the lake came a gust of wind, clear and sharp. It froze his nostrils and misted his breath out before him in frozen puffs. 

A warm smell of spices and baked bread danced past his nose. He froze, transfixed by the smell. His mouth watered. 

“Master Baggins?” 

Councilor Farik was watching him worriedly. “Are you all right?”

“What? Oh—yes, yes, just—look, why don’t you all go on ahead?” he heard himself say, trying to pick out which direction the smell had come from. “I fancy a bit of a look around.”

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely! I’ll be right along, don’t bother waiting.”

“Master Baggins, will you at least take a guard with you?”

But Bilbo was already off, oblivious to the confused stares the group sent after him as he wandered off into the city.

~*~

It was astounding really, just how quickly dwarves could set to their craft when they wished.

And they had wished.

Dale rose around him, high slanted roofs freshly tiled in in bright red and bronze, stone walls strong and whole, cobblestone paths restored and cleared of rubble. He would have never believed that a battle had waged on these very streets if he hadn’t seen it himself. No longer was this a struggling ruin, fighting for the basics of survival; Dale was alive and full to bursting with the energy of its people.

And there weren’t just men. Dwarves walked here and there through the streets, talking with their taller neighbours as easily as if they’d been doing it their whole lives. Something had begun to heal here, some of the distrust and resentment the whole mess with the gold and the Arkenstone had nearly caused to boil over-it had eased, none of the terrible tension crackling through the air. In its place was a steady peace, and an underlying thrill of excitement and cheer at the days ahead.

For all of winter’s chill there was something warm on the air, easy and hopeful. The great weight had lifted, voices rising in excitement and mirth through the twisting streets. Faces he passed had none of the grim, hollow-eyed looked they’d sported in the days before the battle; instead there were easy smiles and bright eyes.

Again, that siren bakery smell drifted by on the air, taunting the hobbit and promising warm dough and buttery delights in nice, tasty portions. He slowed, eyes slipping shut, just savoring that heavenly scent,

When had he last had fresh bread? Not since he’d been sick in Laketown, too miserable to taste it properly. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Opening his eyes he swallowed heavily, want rising in his belly. For so many months he had been struggling just to get by, pushing himself to his very limits and beyond with the quest and the weary road, again through the aftermath of the battle and the scarce rations they’d all made due on. 

Those days after the battle were terrible to think on, dull and bleak, and numbingly awful. With all the death and suffering laid so starkly for all to see, he’d found his appetite dwindling, unease and a creeping sense of apprehension plaguing his waking hours and nightmares haunting his dreams.

When Thorin had pulled him aside and asked quietly if he wanted to join the dwarven delegation going to Mirkwood he had jumped at the chance to get away. Just for a little. And not even very far. He’d just needed to stop seeing death everywhere, to stop seeing the bodies of his friends flashing behind his eyes when they closed.

It had worked.

To an extent.

For all the trip had proved an ample distraction, it had still been stressful. Minding the delegation didn’t say anything too insulting and plunge them all into another war, and trading careful guarded words with Thranduil and his court would keep anyone on edge. Memories of his miserable month spent alone and invisible in those same halls had begun to play in the back of his mind like shadows, weaning away whatever comfort he might have taken from fancy lodgings and the richly laden table.

But _this_ — a dizzying wave of nostalgia swept over him. The simple smell of warm dough brought a rush of images and sounds from his childhood dancing before his eyes, warm and golden and safe.

Like dazed moth to flame, his feet followed the smell, leading him through the winding streets and into a large square, over to a row of vendors. They were simple wooden structures, little more than three walls and a counter, slanted roofs of simple unfinished wood offering protection form the snow and freezing wind that blew in over the lake. 

And there was the source; a bakery stall.

He gazed at the display hungrily, eyes transfixed on the doughy treats lining the shelves, fingers slowly curling and uncurling as he stared. A chilly breeze swept by, tussling his hair and sending the warm pastry smell washing over him in a thick rush.

He groaned.

In a near trance he edged over to the booth.

“How much?” he asked, lifting on his toes to get a better look. 

The woman behind the counter grinned, tucking a thick lock of hair behind her colourful headscarf. “Which one?”

“Oh…”

There were glazed sweet rolls and little tarts, flaky sugary pastries, stout little biscuits and huge salted pretzels the size of his face. He swallowed, his belly roaring at the sight. “A sweet roll,” he decided, remembering the ones his father used to make with a pang. “Just one.” _For now_ , he promised himself silently.

“This?” she asked, pointing to the rolls.

“Yes, please.”

“One copper piece.”

“Here.”

Tucking the copper away in her apron, she picked the roll up with a pair of tongs, lowering it into his eager hands. It was warm to the touch, attractively browned and glistening with a thin, buttery glaze.

Stepping back with his prize, he sunk his teeth into the soft, yielding dough, unable to wait a single moment longer.

A strangled moan escaped him.

It wasn’t at all like his father’s recipe, but the warm, soft bread might as well have been the most exquisite of delicacies to the hobbit. The simple sweetness burst across his scenes, the richness of the yielding dough and the sheer pleasure of something so decadent overwhelmed him nearly to the point of tears.

Realizing he was still standing in front of the stall he swallowed, blinking back embarrassed tears. “It’s wonderful,” he managed, beaming at the woman.

She laughed kindly. “High praise indeed, Master Hobbit.”

Holding the treat close to his body, he made his way over to a wall, leaning his weight against sturdy stone and happily taking another bite. It warmed his chilled fingers, his belly roaring in approval.

All too soon the treat was gone, leaving Bilbo licking his fingers in dazed satisfaction. As much as he’d meant to savor it, there was such joy in simply scarfing down something so warm and tasty. It was a luxury he had sorely missed.

Looking around at the arched roofs of Dale, bright lights shining merrily in the early nightfall, he had a feeling such simple joys wouldn’t be so rare a thing anymore.

Movement caught his eye, a smaller sturdy figure entering the square from one of the streets to the right. He paused, finger in his mouth and butter smeared up one cheek, and looked over.

It had been weeks, but it would have taken many lifetimes for Bilbo to fail to recognize Thorin Oakenshield.

Their eyes locked across the square. A huge well of relief and something suspiciously like homesickness crashed into him, knocking the breath right out of his chest.

“Thorin,” he whispered, hand dropping numbly from his mouth.

The dwarf quickened his stride, a smile breaking over his face. “Master Baggins.”

“Thorin!”

Bilbo broke into a run, launching himself at Thorin as soon as he was close enough and wrapping his arms around the dwarf’s bulk as best he could. The scent of leather and metal filled his nose, oddly soothing. Thorin’s arms came up around him, holding him close, warm and familiar.

“Well met, dear hobbit,” was rumbled into his curly hair, Thorin’s voice low and fond. 

Finally Bilbo pulled back, beaming up at Thorin and drinking in the sight of him. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed the dwarf until he’d set eyes on him once again.

They had exchanged letters aplenty while Bilbo was away in Mirkwood, and while they had largely discussed matters of state they has still found the time to exchange smaller more personal notes as well. It was nothing compared to seeing the dwarf before him, whole and hale.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Bilbo laughed. “I thought the mountain was too busy for you to leave it?”

“That may be,” said the dwarf, hands slowly training down Bilbo’s arms. “Yet I am not so busy to be unable to great a friend.” He frowned, looking the hobbit over carefully. “You were not with your escort.”

Bilbo blinked. “How did you know? Er—I mean, aside from the obvious.”

A smile pulled at the corner of Thorin’s mouth. “When I met them at the Northern Gate, you were nowhere to be found, and they could only tell me you’d wandered off into Dale.”

“You came to Dale to meet the delegation?”

"Not the delegation.” He cleared his throat, looking away for a moment. “Not _just_ the delegation.

“Oh.”

“Is it so hard to imagine you’ve been missed?” Bilbo looked up at him, finding deep blue eyes gazing back steadily at his own. Something warm grew in his chest. “I had worried when you weren’t with the others, but…you are back. And you are safe.” A large thumb brushed against the corner of his mouth, freezing Bilbo in place. Amusement crept across Thorin’s face. “And you are fed, I see. I should have known.”

“What? Oh, tosh!” A blush reddened the hobbit’s cheeks. He valiantly ignored it, wagging a finger at Thorin. “It will take far more than one sweet roll—no matter how heavenly—to appease a hobbit’s appetite.” He plunged his hands into the pockets of his coat, raising an eyebrow. “I though you knew that by now?”

“Of course,” said Thorin, eyes warm. “Woe to the fool who stands between a hobbit and his dinner.”

Bilbo sniffed. “Just so.”

Thorin grinned. “Come back to the mountain with me and have some more.”

“Well, who am I to refuse such an offer!”

A deep, brass clanging rang across the streets, voices calling to each other in the clear night air. Turning towards the sound, Bilbo spotted a series of scaffolds built up around one of Dale’s many towers. A huge gleaming golden bell was being carefully hoisted up, men and dwarves pulling away at the ropes.

“Dale was once called the City of Golden Bells,” said Thorin, following his gaze. “It will be so once again.”

“I’d imagine those bells are of dwarven make?”

“You’d imagine correctly.”

“That’s a fine thing you’ve done. It’s a beautiful bit of symbolism, dwarven craft in a city of men, working together to create a better and brighter future.”

He felt Thorin’s eyes on him. “What?” he asked, turning under the scrutiny. “Do I have butter on my face still?”

Thorin brushed his arm against him, eyes gentle. “It’s good to see you so lively again. I had worried for you after the battle. We all did.”

The memory of those awful days flitted across his mind, death and suffering and sorrow laying heavy on every moment. It had felt like drowning, the air thick and heavy with sorrow, alliances still tentative, forged only by the battlefield ties of bloodshed and loss. Those days were all a blur. He had worked and worked, running messages and bringing supplies until he was ready to drop, retiring to his small nest of blankets in Thorin’s healing tent to quietly try not to shake apart in the stillness of the night. 

A great clanging cut across his thoughts, a rousing cheer filling the air. The bell had been mounted in place atop the tower and swung there merrily, gleaming a deep coppery gold in the light of torches, peeling its song out into the evening.

Bilbo sucked in a deep breath, the fresh, sharp air and the glowing warmth in his belly grounded him in the moment. A pack of children ran by, laughing and shouting excitedly, a stout little dog barking at their heels, tail wagging madly as it followed them.

It was over.

“It’s past,” he said quietly. “I needed to get away from it, and I did. And how things have changed since then,” he marveled, looking around. All around him were the sounds of life. Of hope. It was heartening to see. “It’s as if the battle was all just some horrible nightmare and now everything is waking up again. Life can go on.”

A hand gently closed around his own, large and rough and warm. 

“You continue to astound me, Bilbo,” said Thorin. “But no one would begrudge you should you need more time to recover.”

Bilbo smiled. “ _This_ is what hobbits take strength from.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Half ruined cities?”

“Merriment!” laughed Bilbo, squeezing his hand. “Good food, good cheer, and good company. Simple comforts. They do a hobbit more good than weeks spent in the finest elven retreat ever could.”

“And I am most glad to hear it.” 

They continued walking, Thorin’s hand still warm around his own. Bilbo resisted the sudden urge to swing their hands together. 

“Simple comforts,” murmured Thorin, a thoughtful pull to his lips.

“And good company,” added Bilbo, giving his hand another squeeze. Thorin squeezed back, his large thumb rubbing along the back of his knuckles.

“Then you shall have both,” he said.

~*~

A feast was waiting for them.

The royal wing held a private dinning chamber that opened to a lovely sitting area, a great huge fireplace crackling merrily away, heavy furs and warm blankets draped over the backs of good stuffed couches with gorgeous geometric carvings down the legs and arms.

All of this Bilbo took in later; His entrance was met with a wall of noise, twelve dwarves all yelling and cheering his return, clamoring for a turn to pat him on the back, ruffle his hair or squeeze the life out of him—sometimes all at the same time.

It was all horribly improper of course, and really Bilbo should have been chiding them for crowding him all at once before even letting him put down his pack, but Bilbo simply couldn’t be arsed to care.

By the end of it his cheeks ached from grinning and his heart glowed, warming the last of the chill all from the tips of his toes to the tips of his ears. 

“Oh, I’ve missed you all too,” said Bilbo fondly. “It was just too quiet in Thranduil’s Halls.” He sighed and shook his head sadly. “You lot have gone and ruined me, I’m afraid. I was actually looking forward to all the noise and chaos of a hall of dwarves.”

“Ha!”

“Hear hear!”

“But really, I’ve only been gone a few weeks, you all really didn’t have to do this!”

“Three weeks is more then enough,” grumbled Dwalin, Gloin and Bifur grunting in agreement.

“If you’d stayed another you would’ve missed the Yule celebrations,” added Bofur.

“And that would have been tragic!” cried Kili, draping himself over the hobbit. “Having to spend Yule alone in _Mirkwood_.”

Bilbo half-heartedly tried to shrug him off. “Oh hardly alone. It’s an entire City of elves.”

Dori _tutted_. “Dreadful.” 

“Hang on,” said Fili, frowning at his brother. “I thought you were all for Mirkwood.”

“Tauriel’s been living in Dale since the battle,” added Ori helpfully.

“Ah. That explains it.”

“But the point _is_ ,” continued Kili valiantly, “that Bilbo’s here for the celebrations!”

“Aye, with us!”

“An not stuck with that prancy fool King.”

“Isn’t Thranduil supposed to be coming here for Yule?” interrupted Bilbo, deciding not to comment on the rest. “That’s part of what I was sent to discuss, along with the others.”

“Aye, that he is,” agreed Balin. “An old tradition that. Back in Thror’s days, when he still ruled with a clear mind.”

“And would—oh!” Bilbo flailed as Dori lifted his pack from behind him, slipping it off over his shoulders and down his arms.

“Here, coat too, lad.”

“Ah, thank you!”

“Sit, eat.” Bombur waved at hand at him. “All of you. Before it gets cold!”

Bilbo found himself maneuvered into the seat just to Thorin’s left at the head of the table. He sank into it, eyes wide as he hungrily took in the spread. “It smells wonderful, Bombur.”

“A toast,” declared Thorin, standing abruptly.

“To Erebor!” shouted Gloin.

“To Smaug in his watery grave!”

“To Yule!”

“To prosperity and good fortune!”

“And to our most esteemed Master Baggins!” called Thorin. “May the hair on his toes never fall out!”

“Hear hear!”

“Master Baggins!”

“Bilbooo!”

“Bogginss!”

Bilbo waved them off good-naturedly and cleared his throat. “To Thorin’s Company and the King Under the Mountain!” 

“Aye! To us!”

“To Thorin!”

Watching these dwarves he’d come to know and care for, faces flushed with happiness and the promise of a hearty meal, and was hit with such a strong swell of belonging, of home, he could do little more then beam at them all.

Thorin caught his eye as he sat back down, bowing his head and he took a drink from his tankard.

~*~

_Knock knock knock_

Bilbo blinked awake, staring groggily at the ceiling.

_Knock knock knock_

Sound finally registering as someone at the door, Bilbo jumped out of bed. He snatched his tattered coat off a nearby chair and wrapped it around himself in place of a robe, hurrying over. 

Pausing in front of the door, Bilbo took a moment to run a hand hastily through his unruly curls and tug at the lapels of his coat before opening it. 

“Master Baggins.” One of the guards stationed around the royal wing bowed his head respectfully. “Sorry to disturb you, but there’s a package here for you.”

He looked down at the package in the guard’s hands groggily. “Ah. So there is.” There wasn’t any card or marking on it that he could see. “Er, are you sure it’s for me?”

“Yes. Here.” Numbly Bilbo took it, shuffling it into his arms. It was just about the size of a cake box and nearly as light.

“Does it say who it’s from?”

“No. But have no fear. Everything is thoroughly checked before being delivered.”

“Ah. Right. Good, that’s—no, sorry, I don’t follow.”

“For poisons,” the guard added helpfully. “Toxic fumes, unstable substances, explosives— _dangers_ , Master Baggins.”

“Ah ha. Yes. Of course.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. Suddenly the package in his arms felt much heavier. 

“Not to worry!” assured the guard. “Captain Dwalin himself cleared this one. It’s our honour and privilege to defend you.” 

Though he was no expert on dwarves, Bilbo had learned a thing or two from months of traveling with thirteen of them. This one looked young, just a bit older than Fili maybe, armour shined to a bright polish and a fiercely proud look in his eyes. 

That was, assuming this _was_ a male dwarf. It was a bit hard to tell to his untrained eye. There was a trick with the braids, but he hadn’t had time to ask about it before he’d left for Mirkwood. He made a mental note to do so as soon as possible.

Bilbo cleared his throat again. “Well, I’m glad to hear it my fine, er, dwarf. Thank you most kindly for your excellent services.”

The guard puffed out their chest and gave him another quick bow. “My pleasure, Master Baggins.” The dwarf turned curtly and strode back down the hallway, leaving Bilbo standing in his doorway, box in his arms.

“Well then.”

The door closed with a heavy _cluck_ behind him. 

He made his way over to the sturdy wooden table in the den. Upon his arrival last night, he’d been informed that a room had been made ready for him. When he had left for Mirkwood they’d just started moving into the mountain, and somehow it had completely slipped his mind that he would get an entire _room_ all to himself. A little home, almost.

At least, he had assumed it would be little. His dwarves clearly had other ideas on the matter.

Out of all the royal wing, Bilbo’s new rooms were thankfully the smallest. Smallest being about half the size of Bag End. They were luxurious but thankfully spared of any gaudiness or excessive elegance he had been worried about. Almost suspiciously so. Not that Thorin’s rooms were covered in gleaming metals and precious gems or any such nonsense, but these rooms he’d found himself installed in could almost be called _cozy_. As if someone had gone over and taken pains to have whimsical wooden carvings trailing up the walls and a thick homey knitted quilt laid out on the bed in warm, rich colours. It was largely bare of any other decoration, shelves and tables standing empty, and Bilbo could not help himself from imagining what he might arrange them with.

Even if he would be leaving Erebor for the Shire come spring. Which was what he wanted to do. 

Right.

Eyeing the box he ran his hands carefully over the top, the guard’s words running through his head. He hadn’t been worried before…

Bilbo clucked his tongue, irritated at his himself. “For goodness' sake, it’s just a box,” he muttered. Feeling around the bottom he flipped the lid up.

Beautiful deep blue velvet and soft white fur met his eyes. 

“Oh...”

It was just as soft as it looked. Worries forgotten, he pulled it out of the box, a long, thick coat unfurling and pooling on the table. He lifted it up, twirling it this way and that, admiring the soft white fur of the collar and trim and the gold stitching at the edges. It was long, long enough to trail behind him as he walked like a cloak, a bright jeweled clasp glimmering at the throat, bright silver buttons running down one side.

Reverently placing it on the table, he shrugged out of his old coat, letting it fall to the floor in distracted heap. Eagerly he pulled the new one on, the long length of it warm against the back of his caves.

It was just his size.

So lovely and warm was the coat, he simply stood there in the middle of his room hugging himself, letting the soft fur collar tickle his face and his calves where it fell against them. He suspected he looked a tad ridiculous decked out in such regal looking furs, but he would gladly look silly if it meant he could be this warm. The chill of the mountain had a habit of creeping up on you when you least expected it, and his old coat simply wasn’t up to the task. 

_This_ though…

He hugged it aground himself again, burying his face in the fur. Closer inspection showed geometric renderings of oak leaves and acorns embroidered along the cuffs and edges in fine gold thread.

~*~

Erebor’s stables were located on the ground level of the mountain, around the back and out of the way. Bilbo had never been to them before, yet he could tell he was close long before he reached their double doors, the deep earthy smell of straw and manure giving it away. Memories of the farms back in the Shire rose to mind and of the autumns he had pitched in to help bring in the harvest.

Thorin had sent a note asking to meet him in the stables that morning. That is, once Bilbo had eaten breakfast of course. 

It was so nice to have his hobbit needs taken into account.

He pushed the doors open and slipped inside, looking around in wonder. The stables were vast, row after row of stalls stretching in the dim light coming in from the small windows along the tops of the walls. He could hear shuffling, the soft muffled sound of hooves over hay. Goats and sheep nestled into their straw beds, along with cows and pigs and shaggy ponies with intricate braids in their manes and tails. Dain had sent them after the battle, enough to see Erebor back on its feet and to get their own stables running again.

A curious bleat came from his right. The soft nose of a mountain ram quested out towards him, poking over gaps in the wooden gate to snuffle at him. 

“Well _hello_ there,” cooed Bilbo, resisting the urge to pet his furry head. He didn’t want to get his fingers nipped. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for you.”

The ram bleated at him again, great nostrils expanding.

“Buldin, behave yourself.” Turning he found Thorin making his way over.

“There’s nothing wrong with being curious, Thorin,” said Bilbo, smiling. “Bundin. Is that your name?” he murmured to the ram. “Can I pet him?”

Amusement shone in Thorin’s eyes. “Here, give him this.” He passed Bilbo an apple. “Hold it out on your hand and don’t move.”

Bilbo did so. Fur tickled his palm as the ram swiped up the apple with his tongue, munching away happily. “There you are,” cooed Bilbo, watching him eat. The ram finished and nuzzled against his palm, startling a laugh from the hobbit. He carefully scratched the thick fur between his eyes, winning a soft bleat of pleasure.

“Thank you, by the way,” said Bilbo after a while, feeling Thorin’s eyes on him.

“What for?”

“The coat. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything as fine, or as warm.”

Thorin shuffled his feet. “…How did you know it was from me?” 

“You told me yourself.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“Ah.”

Bilbo grinned. “I absolutely love it, Thorin. Thank you.”

The dwarf ducked his head. "Good.” He cleared his throat. “Here.” Thorin reached over, opening the gate. The ram came out from around it, gently nosing against Bilbo’s arm. 

“Oh, aren’t you a _nice_ big thing,” cooed Bilbo, stroking a hand along the furry flank.

“Would you like to take him out?”

“Sorry?”

“I meant to ask—that is,” Thorin stopped, and cleared his throat. Bilbo watched him from behind his bangs. “The first day of Yule is tomorrow.”

“Yes. I’d heard.”

Thorin nodded. “I will be busy through much of it. Today though…I’d wondered if you would like to join me for an outing?”

“Will we be riding?” asked Bilbo, wondering if this was why they were in the stables.

“I was thinking more of a sleigh ride.”

“You have sleighs!?” asked Bilbo, eyes wide. “I haven’t been on a sleigh in years!”

“Yes, we have sleighs,” affirmed Thorin, smiling. “I would gladly take you, just around the tamer parts of the mountain. The rams are surefooted. They are not troubled by snow nor ice. If that is something you would wish?”

Bilbo grinned into the ticklish fur of his coat. “What do you think, Bundin?” he asked the ram, scratching behind his ears. “How does a sleigh ride sound?” The ram bleated at him, nosing against his chest gently. “Well, I think that’s a yes.”

The creases around Thorin eyes deepened. “Good.” He reached around the side of one of the stables, picking up a basket that had been tucked away. 

“What’s that?”

“Courtesy of Bombur. He’s packed us a lunch.”

Bilbo laughed. “Oh, now why didn’t you say so in the first place!”

~*~

It was a lovely day they spent out in the snow.

Two rams were hooked up to a charming little sleigh, pulling them through the snow easily. Bilbo had worried the rams would drag them over uneven rocks and up the scraggiest paths but they had done no such thing, keeping their gait steady and smooth, the motions of the sleigh gentle.

They had traveled down the slope of the mountain, gently curving towards the lake. A blanket of snow lay over everything, glittering in the sun and sparkling like fine crystal dust when it was lifted on the wind. Icicles dripped from the branches of trees, catching the light in their clear depths. Far off the bells of Dale rang, glad and merry, carrying across the water and echoing over the snowy expanse.

Thorin had produced a thick woolen blanket to better protect them from the chill, tucking it carefully around them both and passing out a thermos each of hot apple cider to warm them as they winded slowly through the mountain paths. The basket had held thick sandwiches of ham and cheese, warm apple dumplings and small savory chicken and herb pies.

And all the while Thorin sat warm and solid at his side, pointing out landmarks and telling him tales of his childhood, of Erebor of old and winter days long past. 

It was hard to remember a more pleasant afternoon.

~*~

“Bilbo! Bilbo wake up!”

Grunting awake, Bilbo was blearily aware of a rapid knocking accompanying the voice that had so rudely stirred him from his slumber. 

“Bilbo!”

He jolted to awareness. Had something happened? Was someone injured?

Jumping to his feet he dashed to the door, nearly tripping into a table in his haste. He seized the door handle, scrambling with the lock and wrenching it open. 

Bofur beamed at him from the hall. “There you are!”

“What—what’s happened? Is everyone—?”

“Nonono, everything’s fine, see? But you’re gonna to miss it if you don’t hurry!”

“Hurry—miss what? Bofur!”

“Ach, look at you, still all mussed” he chuckled, reaching out and ruffling Bilbo’s curls. “Go on, fetch your coat and come on!”

“What? Wait, what time is it even? It’s still dark—“

“No time for that!”

“But—“

“No time!”

“Oh all right, half a moment.”

He stumbled back inside, grumbling all the while as he slipped into his coat. “What’s all this about?” he asked, running a hand through his curls as he came back to the door.

Bofur grabbed his hand and tugged him down the hall in a half run, grinning widely. “Hurry Bilbo!”

“Bofur!”

“Oi Bilbo!” Nori was suddenly there, grabbing up Bilbo’s other arm and joining Bofur in tugging him along the passageway. “Come on, we’ll miss it!”

“Miss what?”

“It!”

Bilbo followed, running along in a breathless rush through the dark passages. Their energy was contagious, and despite his irritation at his rude awakening he began to feel excited, wondering where they were going and why they needed to hurry. He’d expected to be given odd looks from whoever would be awake this time of night, but the halls were oddly empty. Any dwarf they did pass was hurrying along just as they were, further into the center of the mountain. 

“Come on!” called Nori, breaking away to run faster. Bilbo huffed but put in an extra burst of speed, feet light on the smooth marble beneath them. There was something thrilling about it, running in the dark in just his nightclothes, reminding him of being a fauntling and messing about with his Took cousins, causing all sorts of mischief.

The passage turned into a staircase, and they all but tripped down it in their rush. Bilbo jumped the last few steps and landing lightly on his feet, laughing at the sheer rush if it. 

“Almost there!”

The passage opened into one of the huge, central squares of Erebor, massive columns and walkways spanning far above and below them, the great carven halls rising all around. Far below them spanned the great dark depths of the mountain. Dwarves lined the railings looking out into the center, all clustered around in various states of undress.

“Here, here!” Dori detached from the crowd, beckoning them closer. Bilbo found himself brought close to the railing, his friends closing in around him.

Hushed excitement filled the air, dwarves talking quietly among each other, anticipation rippling through the crowds. The high clatter of a child’s laugh spilled out from somewhere far above them. Looking up, Bilbo’s breath caught in wonder. As far as he could see, all the railings and walkways were lined with dwarves, all here to witness whatever it was that was about to happen. It must have been the whole kingdom!

“Gracious,” whispered Bilbo, nearly dizzy from the sheer scale of it. “What on earth is going on?”

“You’ll see,” grinned Bofur, squeezing his shoulder.

“Shush!” hissed Dori.

“You shush!”

“Shhh!”

Deep, deep below, echoing up through the fathomless depths, came a voice. A single deep voice, low and haunting. All around them the dwarves hushed, peering down into the depths.

Suddenly a flame sprang forth, sparks flying up from way deep down, scattering bits of light and illuminating the walls as they climbed. More voices joined now, accompanying the first. Clutching the railing Bilbo looked down, seven lights springing to life in a circle all around the sides of the descent.

Again a dazzling burst of sparks flew up from the middle, brighter this time, reminding Bilbo of one of Gandalf’s whizz poppers. It flew straight up, briefly lighting the faces of the bystanders watching as it passed, disappearing far above them.

Now more voices joined in, more lights, and the lowest level overlooking the drop was alight. 

Nori leaned over and whispered in the hobbit’s ear. “They sing of Mahal, our father. A spark of the mighty forge-fire lies in every dwarf, and from it he gave us life.”

Another level lit up, both voices and light rising, increasing, like a slow sunrise.

“We were born into a world that was never meant for us, that was against us in so many ways,” continued Nori. “But Mahal gave us his strength, and his will and his gift of craft. And so we endure.”

Their level lit up, lanterns springing to life all around them. Dwarves joined their voices to the song, the ground near vibrating with the sound of it.

Bilbo clung onto he railing, struck mute in awe. He shut his eyes and simply _felt_ the mountain all around him, resonating through the stone like something alive. The haunting song flowed through him, and for a moment, just a moment, he thought he felt something like what his friends did; much the way he could feel a faint presence of life in a tree, he felt it now from the stone of the mountain, Erebor herself, alive and aware, watching over her people.

It was a humbling experience, to be allowed witness to such an event. 

Finally the great song ended in a great crescendo, a final burst of sparks soaring up to explode in a brilliant shower of gold, dwarflings laughing and chasing after them. Slowly the crowds began to dissipate, heading back to their chambers. 

Bilbo still stood where he was, staring out into the center in silent wonder.

“All right there?” asked Nori, nudging him. 

“That was beautiful.”

Nori smiled, hands in his pockets, face lit up in orange and gold from the lanterns still lit along the walls. “Yeah. It was.”

And so started the first day of Yule.

~*~

Dale in the daytime was just as charming as it had been at night.

He managed to find some gifts for his friends, mindful of the gift-giving tradition around the later days of Yule. There was so much to choose from. Bolts of fabric in dazzling colours and patterns, glittering jewelry and broaches, all sorts of weapons and tools. They even had firecrackers! He picked up a few for Oin and Gloin, knowing their fondness for anything flammable and explosive. 

But it was the spices that had Bilbo in awe. With trade once again flowing down the river south to the sea, and with caravans traveling to Erebor from east of the Iron Hills, there were more spices and herbs than Bilbo had ever imaged existing. It was an assault of colour and smells, each better than the last. And the teas! He’d simply had to pick up a few.

Happily munching on a large buttered pretzel, Bilbo walked slowly through the streets, heading towards the northern gate and back towards Erebor. His purchases were stowed away in his pack, leaving his hands free for tastier pursuits. 

A sudden clanging of the bells startled him, nearly causing him to drop his pretzel. This wasn’t the hourly bell he’d heard a few times today. This was something else, many bells all toiling together in a grander sound.

People were looking around, talking among themselves in confusion. Bilbo finished off his pretzel, finding a wall to stand against as he watched, wondering what was going on.

“Look! Elves!”

“The elves are coming!” 

“The Elven king!”

Oh. That would explain it. 

Quickly, people began to flock to the main street that ran through the middle of the city all the way up to the mountain, the obvious choice if that was where Thranduil was heading. They lined the street on either side, a hushed sort of excitement falling on them. Licking his fingers, Bilbo made his way closer, lifting on his toes to try and get a look over the crowd.

Soon, the sound of small bells carried over the wind, music of flutes and horns filling the air.

“My word,” whispered Bilbo, pacing a hand to his face in amazement and half from embarrassment. 

Thranduil certainly knew how to make an entrance.

The Elf King road proudly down the main street, perched atop his mighty elk and crowned in a winter wreath of holly. A long regal robe was clasped at his throat with a glimmering broach shaped like a star, the length of it shimmering along the flank of his steed.

Behind him came more elves, some riding deer with small silver bells ringing merrily from their harnesses, others on foot walking alongside. Some sang, other played instruments, and a few, right near the middle of the procession led a team of elk dragging the most enormous log Bilbo had ever seen. 

The elves tossed small silken packets at the crowd, and as Bilbo watched he saw children laughing, grabbing them up and emptying sweet nuts and candied fruit into their palms. 

Quickly, Bilbo made his way further up the street, trying to keep Thranduil in his sights. If he knew the Elf King, even a little, Bilbo knew he wouldn’t pass through the city without some form of grand address.

He was not disappointed.

Up ahead was the main square where the Palace of Old had stood. It had been restored, though Bard had made every effort to have it be more of a town hall then any palace.

Bard stood there now along with his children, watching in bewilderment as the parade of elves advanced towards them, music, bells and all.

Thranduil lazily held up a hand. As one every elf stilled, silence filling the air, thick with anticipation. Bilbo edged closer, shaking his head in wonder. Such dramatics.

“Hail, King Bard of Dale,” greeted Thranduil, tossing back his head (rather like the great elk he rode on), blond hair shining brilliantly in the sun.

“…Hail Thranduil, Elf King,” returned Bard. He cleared his throat, visibly at a loss. “Dale welcomes you and your people.”

The elf’s eyes gleamed. He gracefully bent his head in a nod. “Your welcome is accepted, though we will not tarry here. We have brought gifts from the bounty of the Greenwood.”

More of the packets were tossed out to the crowd, children shrieking in delight and chasing after them. Bard watched this with an expression somewhere between dismay and stoic neutrality.

“You have our thanks,” Bard settled on, giving a curt nod.

Thranduil hummed, watching him with gray, clear eyes, face unreadable.

Suddenly that ancient gaze shifted, finding Bilbo through the crowd and catching him in their steely stare.

“Master Baggins. Greetings.”

Bilbo gave a hasty bow. “King Thranduil.”

The King kept his gaze for a long few moments, running his eyes over the hobbit. Bilbo looked back steadily, familiar with the elf’s somewhat erratic ways of conducting himself. 

“I look forward to seeing more of you in the coming days,” the elf said finally. Before Bilbo could say anything in reply, he raised his hand.

And just like that the music started up again and off they went, like some strange nightly vision brought about by too much of the old Gaffer’s moonshine.

Shaking himself, Bilbo walked over to Bard. “Well,” he said, plunging his hands into his pockets.

“That just happened.” The man stared as if he didn’t quite believe it.

“It did, didn’t it? There he goes.”

“And _how_ he goes,” muttered Bard, watching the procession in a sort of shell-shocked daze. He turned to the hobbit. “Do you think I offended him?” he asked. “He’s not expecting me to give a gift back, is he?”

The hobbit patted his arm. “No, no, I think he enjoys showing off, truly. You’ve nothing to worry about. Except maybe the trip back.”

~*~

Bilbo woke with a start, a yell at the back of his throat. He bolted upright, looking around the dark room in a blind panic, trying to come to his bearings.

_Thorin, Thorin please…_

_No friendship of mine goes with you…_

_The eagles are coming Thorin, just hold on!..._

Hunching in on himself he buried his face in his hands, trying to calm his breathing. 

It was just a dream. Just a dream. Nothing more.

But it easily could have been reality that Thorin had died that day on the ice. That Thorin had recovered from his injuries had been a near miracle. Fili and Kili as well. If the elves hadn’t offered help…if the eagles hadn’t come when they did…if Thorin hadn’t broken free of the gold sickness, hadn’t called off the banishment—

A small noise of misery escaped him.

It was several long minutes before he had calmed down enough to raise his head. In that time his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, the gray glow through the window washing his room in soft tones.

Bilbo sighed, long and low. Pushing back the covers, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, toes finding purchase in a soft furry rug. He snagged his coat from where it was draped over a chair, shrugging it on in lieu of a robe. 

What he needed was some tea.

Stumbling over to the kitchen he fumbled with the kettle, filling it with water and setting it on the stove to boil. The familiar motions calmed him, grounding him more firmly in the present. He found the cabinet with the teas, opening the glass door and staring at the neat row of tins. The smell of peppermint and spices filled the air, comforting and familiar, and still so luxurious after going so long without. He simply stood there for a few long moments, eyes shut, breathing it in and letting the sounds of the heating kettle wash over him.

 _It was over_ , he reminded himself firmly. _Everyone is safe._

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he pulled down the tin of chamomile, plucking out a bag and dropping it a stout, rust-coloured mug. It had been in his kitchen when he moved in, and had quickly become his favorite, a charming pattern of acorns and oak leaves carved along the sides and up the handle. 

Actually, the more he looked at his new rooms the more he noticed that same design appearing again and again. 

Pouring the boiling water into the mug, he brought his tea over to an armchair, curling up in its overstuffed depths and watching the snow fall through the window.


	2. Chapter 2

Daylight crept across the pale winter sky in bursts of pink and orange, washing the snow in their hues. Down in the valley the bells of Dale rang out, glad and joyful, welcoming the new day.

Bilbo leaned against the door frame leading out onto his small balcony, hands wrapped around a streaming mug of tea as he watched the spectacle below. 

He hadn’t expected to get much sleep after being roused by his nightmare, but to his surprise he’d drifted off not soon after, lulled by the tea and the comforts of warm fur and soft bedding. 

This was the second morning he had awoken to the sound of distant bells echoing up the slopes of the mountain. Each day of Yule would be greeted thus, he was told.

A gust of wind brushed past him, lifting his curls. He sipped his tea, looking down at Dale far below, sunlight glinting off of the golden bells as they rang merrily, clear and strong in the crisp air.

It was beautiful.

The longer he stayed in Erebor the more and more he found himself slowly falling in love with it, the halls, the people, all the sights and markets and two entire other kingdoms within easy distance. 

And then there were the people.

Oh, the _people._

Just last night Bilbo had thrown a small party in his new rooms, just the company. He’d delighted in using the new spices and foods he’d found in the markets, and the chance to break in his new kitchen. 

As far as he was concerned the only way to properly break in a new kitchen was to host a party for a rowdy group of dwarves. They certainly took the job to heart.

Bombur had offered to help him cook, and they’d spent a few happy hours in the kitchen, marveling at all the conveniences the mountain offered (clear tap water, hot and cold, and gas stove tops!) and all the recipes they could _finally_ make after months on the road without. 

It had done him good to see everyone together in the same place again. Having all of them crowded into his new rooms, loud and happy and safe, it made something deep in his chest glow. 

It made him think dangerous things like _home_ and _family_ and _sorry Gandalf but I won’t be going back west in the spring after all._

He bit his lip, drumming his fingers across his mug.

That was an option. Staying. Staying here with his dwarves.

Was it?

These were his rooms. But how long was he expected to stay in them? He’d never been formally invited to live here. To stay the winter, yes. But to live here? For good? 

If that was what he wanted.

He took another sip of his tea.

No one had brought up his leaving in the spring. It was known that that was his intention. But that had been more Gandalf than anything, saying he’d be back after the thaw to take Bilbo back west. He’d been too numb those days to do much other than nod, but all of them knew that was what had been decided.

They certainly didn’t seem to mind his presence. In fact all of his dwarves went out of their way to make him feel included, explaining cultural differences, inviting him along on outings and events and just being honestly happy to see him whenever they crossed paths. It was much more then he could say of anyone back in the Shire.

And then there was Thorin.

Oh _Thorin._

Thorin, who was being so sweet and so kind, smiling so softly and running his large, rough hands over his arms with such _care_ —hands he hadn’t at all imaged being put to much better use—

He hastily took a large gulp of tea, nearly scalding himself in the process. He spluttered, cursing under his breath. 

Yes, well.

But did Thorin _mean_ anything by it? Did he know what he was doing to Bilbo’s poor heart?

Deep down, a part of him was certain the dwarf must know.

If Thorin did feel the same then it would hardly be a choice at all. Of _course_ he would stay. 

But if Thorin was horrified and confused by Bilbo’s feelings—or worse, stoically polite and understanding but unable to return them—he would flee the mountain long before the snow even began to melt.

~*~

“Ahem.”

Dwalin stood guard outside of the council chamber, back to the wall, fierce axes strapped in place. He looked down at the hobbit and grinned. “Well, if it isn’t the Master Burglar himself.”

“Hullo Dwalin.” Bilbo peered at the huge doors, still very shut. “Thorin still in court?”

“Aye he is.” He snorted. “And right jolly he is about it.”

“Oh dear. That bad, is it?”

“Some of the older folks from Dain’s lot are putting up a fuss about the elves and men, saying we shouldn’t be having anything to do with them.” He scowled darkly, glaring at the door. “Bunch of whiny old gits the lot of them, if you ask me.”

Bilbo smothered a laugh. “Will they break for lunch soon, do you think?”

Dwalin looked down at him, raising an eyebrow. “Not likely for another half hour. Something you wanted, Bilbo?”

“Ah ha, well…when they do break, would you mind giving this to Thorin, then?” He lifted the basket, puling aside the cloth to reveal four savory cheese Danishes, freshly baked from his new oven. “I imagine it’s hungry work.”

Dwalin grinned. “Aye, will do. But he’d be happier to see your hobbity self.”

“Oh tosh,” waved Bilbo, a pleased blush tinting his cheeks. “But hang on, you’re the captain of the guard, aren’t you?”

“’Course I am.”

He looked up at Dwalin, askance. “But what if I’ve given you _poison?_ ” he whispered conspiringly. “Don’t you have to check for that?”

Dwalin shot him a flat look. “Laddie, I’d sooner ‘spect you to poison yerself than Thorin.”

“Oh hush! No skirting your duties now, you’re just going to have to have one of these and protect his majesty. No, I’m sorry, I know it’s a terrible risk, but you must do it for your King.” He pushed a Danish into the guard’s hands. “Can’t be too lax now, can we?”

Dwalin laughed, great deep chuckles that shook his whole frame. He clasped Bilbo on the shoulder, surprisingly gentle. “Aye lad, you’ve the right of it.”

“Well go on then! Do your duty.”

Taking a bite, Dwalin moaned, devouring the pastry in three bites. 

“Any good?” asked Bilbo nervously. “Is it terribly poisoned?”

“Yer a good sort, Baggins,” chuckled Dwalin, ruffling his curls. 

Bilbo swatted him off, straightening his waistcoat with a huff. “Well, a Baggins does try.”

“Go on, away with you! To whatever mischief you’ve planned. I’ll see these safely to Thorin.”

“Much obliged.”

~*~

On a parapet high above the front gate of Erebor, Bilbo and Ori stood peering out over the railing at the long throng of people below, marching slowly up the path and into the wide doors of the mountain. Many held lanterns, glowing orbs of light shining far below, lighting up the whole procession like something out of a dream. Their voices lifted in song over the wind, rising over the stone and the peaks of the mountain, clear and echoing.

It was mesmerizing.

“What are they singing?”

Ori scratched his nose. “An old Yule song. Mannish one. Supposed to be a prayer of sorts, praising what has been given and asking for the strength to see through the long winter. That sort of thing.”

Bilbo hummed. “I’m seeing some familiar themes here.”

“Mmm. Probably part of the reason our people got into the habit of celebrating together. Our customs complement so nicely.”

“Pooling wealth and strengthening ties isn’t a bad idea either,” mused Bilbo. “Not with how dependent the three kingdom’s economies are on each other.”

“You should see some of the old trade records. They were really something. They had to be to keep everything running and everyone happy.”

The watched in silence for a long few minutes, the song hopeful and joyous all at once. 

“It’s beautiful,” said Bilbo with a sigh, leaning more heavily on the railing.

Ori stared down at the figures below. “Isn’t it? I’m going to paint it. I already have a few sketches worked out from the last few days. I’ll get them down properly. The first Yule in reclaimed Erebor will be remembered!”

“What a fine idea.”

“Someone has to do it.”

“And I couldn’t think of a better dwarf for the job,” assured Bilbo, patting Ori’s arm. The dwarf grinned.

“I’m the only artist in the mountain you _know_ , Bilbo.”

“Oh hush. You’re a wonderful, skilled artist and you’ll just have to accept some praise.”

“All right,” laughed Ori. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.” Bilbo sniffed primly.

“The last few days of Yule are quieter, I can get a start on them then. Besides, I’ve a feeling Nori’s gotten me some lovely metallic paint.” He sighed wistfully, a dreamy look in his eyes. “It’s been _ages_ since I’ve had a chance to work with anything other than charcoal. I’m dying to work on something delicate and properly ornate.”

“You’ve certainly earned it.”

Footsteps sounded in the hall behind them, and Balin emerged out onto the parapets, slightly out of breath. “There you two are. Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

“Enchanting,” agreed Bilbo, watching the tail end of the procession slowly come closer. By now most of the long line was within the mountain, deep below their feet. The men of Dale come to join in the Great Yule Feast. It was an exciting thought. 

Balin certainly seemed to think so as well, the old dwarf near vibrating in excitement, his eyes twinkling merrily. He joined them at the railing and looked over at the procession, shaking his head. “I thought I’d never live to see another Yule in Erebor. But here we are, ladies. We’ve done it!”

Ori grinned. “We have, haven’t we?”

“Ach, but come on now, the feast will be starting soon!”

~*~

The feast was held in one of the larger halls, featuring huge towering columns and a cavernous ceiling, long dangling lanterns descending from above to light the scene. Statues of dwarf lords stared down at them, set in alcoves along the wall where a balcony overlooked from the floor above. All around were draped great wreathes of leaves and berries, huge glittering ornaments joining them to attract the eye and reflect light where they hit.

Three long stone tables had been placed in the middle of the hall, a shorter one set up as a head table near the front. Huge fireplaces lined the back wall, and as he stared Bilbo recognized the shape of the huge log he’d seen the elves pulling earlier crackling away merrily inside. _Of course_ , he thought to himself, _a Yule log_. 

That hall was full of people, dwarves, men and the few elves that had accompanied Thranduil standing out by the wreaths they all still wore in their hair (though none were as grand as the elf king’s). 

Balin led Blibo and Ori over to the head table, the rest of the company already there. Thranduil, Bard and their respective attendants had a place, with Thorin in the middle. The spot to his left was empty, and Balin shooed the hobbit over to it before he could protest.

Thorin caught his eyes as he walked over, a warm smile breaking over his face. Sitting down, Bilbo brushed his foot against the dwarf’s under the table. The great hulking boot nudged back, and stayed gently pressed against the bare side of his foot.

Well. 

Now _that_ was quite a forward thing to do! If they were both hobbits that would be a very clear invitation. Bilbo blushed, clearing his throat and fiddling absently with the cutlery.

Really he should move his foot away, but…

Well. There were worse things to endure.

Before the feast could begin, there was the matter of speeches and toasts. The three kings in attendance (for all Bard argued he had not had an official coronation nor was he sure the people of Dale wouldn’t want to elect a new leader to be king, he was the only one arguing the point, and thus was cheerfully ignored) were each expected to have something meaningful to say.

Thorin started, as it was his halls they all resided in. Standing from his seat, he gave a brief speech about how the Erebor of old owed much of its wealth to trade with its neighbouring kingdoms and how looking forward they could all reach a new, greater age together as allies. There had followed a resounding _Hail!_ from the hall and everyone drank a toast.

Thranduil took that as his cue, and standing, said something very cryptic about leadership and the slow wane of time and the short lifespan of mortals and ended it off with something about renewing old traditions and strengthening ties. This was followed by a few long moments of silence before a slightly confused _Hail!_ broke out. They drank again.

Bard had coughed and said he was grateful for the support Dale had been extended and looked forward to continuing to work with both kingdoms in the future as allies. He was _Hail_ ed! heartily and everyone drank.

And then the Great Feast began. 

As a hobbit, and thus, something of an expert on these things, Bilbo could safely say this feast was truly deserving of the tittle ‘Great.’

To start it off, two dwarves marched into the hall bearing a huge roast boar on a golden platter, beautifully glazed with an apple in its mouth. It had been brought to the head table in place of pride. A gift from Thranduil. This was followed by yet more dwarves carrying yet more shining golden platters with massive, elegantly arranged (and cooked) game upon them, placing them strategically on every table so no one would go without. 

This signaled the beginning of the feast, and lids were removed from platters in a flourish, revealing their tasty treasures hiding beneath.

Bilbo’s mouth watered just looking at it all.

There was just about every type of meat he had ever seen all together, painted and glazed ham, plump turkeys and pheasants, pork and ribs, sausage wrapped in bacon, and a fish stew from Dale that was some kind of delicacy. Stuffing was displayed elegantly, wrapped in sage and carved into thick cylinder slices. There was cranberry sauce and applesauce, roasted beats and parsnips, potatoes in rosemary and oil, miniature boats of gravy that passed down the table at intervals, and a gorgeous braided egg bread, rich and sweet with soft pads of creamy butter. 

Once the main course was cleared away there followed huge platters of fruit, many Bilbo had never seen before, some artfully arranged, others baked and drizzled in honey and sugar. There were puddings and pies, sugary pastries and apple dumplings, sticky cinnamon bread, thick creamy custard, chocolate truffles, ginger snaps and small cauldrons of spicy hot cocoa.

Bilbo had eaten some of just about everything, Thorin all the while passing more dishes his way to make his quest easier. They even had wassail and a sweet drink from the east called punch, spicy and sweet with a hint of cider underneath.

He was contemplating his third apple dumpling when music started up, a group of musicians beginning to play.

“Will there be dancing?” asked Bilbo, caving and hoisting the dumpling on his plate, making sure to scoop up some of the sticky sauce as well.

“Indeed there will be,” Thorin said, taking a long pull of his mulled wine. Almost as soon as he had finished speaking, people were getting up, abandoning the table for the dance floor. “Do you wish to dance, Master Baggins?”

The hobbit hummed, looking critically over the table. “I think I will. But I’m not quite finished here yet.”

Thorin chuckled fondly. “Take your fill. The feast will go long into the night yet.”

Bilbo did take his fill. He managed to find a little more room and indulged in an extra helping or two of pudding, a few more tarts finding their way onto his plate as well.

He was just finishing off one more little pastry when Bofur came hurling towards the table.

“Oi Bilbo! Know this song?” 

Bilbo stopped and listened for a moment. The he gasped. “This is a Shire song!”

“Come on then, show us how it’s done!”

Laughing, Bilbo got to his feet, dashing around the table and joining Bofur on the dance floor. It was indeed a song most commonly played in the rowdier pubs across the Shire and at parties, and Bilbo kicked up his feet, dancing to the complicated steps with practiced ease.

After he was pulled into a surprisingly lively jig with Balin, the old dwarf spinning him around in a dance he’d seen once in Bree years ago. As soon as that song ended he was passed off to Bifur, who turned out to be such an excellent dancer he led Bilbo through a completely unfamiliar dance without either of them stepping on the other's feet. Then Gloin snatched him up and passed him over to Ori, and then to Fili.

Finally he was given a breather, waving off the next dance to stand by the side and just take it all in. He caught sight of Kili and Tauriel dancing together, and surprisingly Thranduil with Bard, the former bargeman’s children giggling from the side as they watched.

Glancing over at the head table he noticed it was empty. 

“Master Baggins.”

Turning, he found himself faced with the King Under the Mountain himself.

“Master Oakenshield,” Bilbo returned, grinning up at him.

Bowing from the waist, Thorin asked, “May I have this dance?”

Bilbo looked Thorin slowly over, licking his lips. “You may.”

Thorin was not the most graceful partner Bilbo had that night. Nor was he the best dancer. They stumbled over each other’s feet many times, giggling and swaying in an odd combination of dance moves found anywhere from the Shire to Bree to Ered Luin and a few from Erebor of old. Thorin’s hands were warm and sure, his eyes dark where they met his own, content to match whatever Bilbo brought, energy sparkling between the two. One song turned into three, and then he lost count, happily caught up in the thrill of the closeness of their bodies and the open joy on Thorin’s face.

Not the best dancer, no. But by far his favourite.

Finally they stopped, too tired to continue.

“Think I’ll get some air. It’s a bit stuffy in here,” panted Bilbo, fanning himself with his hand.

Thorin leaned close to his ear to be heard over the noise. “There’s a balcony not far from here. I could show you?” 

The sound of his beautiful deep voice sent shivers down his spine. “Yes, please,” he managed, sternly chasing those thoughts away.

They broke away from the hall, the sounds of merriment fading the further they walked. Thorin led Bilbo down a long passageway, turning twice and then ending in a door, which he opened. A gust of frosty wind met them, the cold winter sky opening before them as they stepped outside.

Bilbo took a deep breath, relishing in the clear cool air. He was still over-warm from the dancing and the cold air made for a refreshing change. Peering over the balcony there was no sign of Dale, nor of any distant mountain range. Instead was a wide, white expanse stretching out into the gloom of the night.

“There was something I wanted to ask you,” began Thorin slowly, after a long few moments standing together at the railing.

Bilbo’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh?”

“Do you…are you enjoying the festivities?”

“Yes, yes I have been,” said Bilbo slowly. 

“And the mountain,” continued Thorin in a low serious tone, not meeting his gaze. “How have you been finding it?”

“Well..." Bilbo shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. He looked uncomfortable, holding himself tense and stiff. “It’s big, so it’s usually not much trouble. To find,” he clarified at Thorin’s frown.

Thorin shut his eyes and let out a low chuckle. “ _Bilbo._ ”

The hobbit grinned. That was better.

“Sorry. Honestly, everything has been wonderful here. I never imagined living in a mountain could be like…well, like this!” Another gust of wind swept by, dusting them both in powdery snow. Bilbo shivered, suddenly wishing he had brought his coat.

“Here.” Thorin shrugged out of his own great fur, wrapping it around Bilbo’s shoulders carefully.

“Are you certain?” asked Bilbo, hands already curling in its warm folds.

“Please.”

Bilbo tugged the fur closer, brushing his cheek against the collar and stealthily breathing it in. It smelled just like Thorin. “Thank you.”

Thorin cleared his throat. “And your rooms?”

“Most satisfactory.” The hobbit gave a firm nod. “They’re comfortable and spacious without being too grand to be cozy. Perfect.”

“Good. They are yours, Bilbo. You know that, don’t you?” He held up a hand. “Not just—not just until spring. Those rooms are yours, and yours alone. I wanted to…to make sure you knew that.” His eyes were warm as he looked down at Bilbo. “You will always have a home here, Bilbo. In Erebor. With us.”

The hobbit stared up at him with wide eyes. “Oh…”

“We would all like you to stay, if that is what you wish. Or at least visit. The doors of any dwarven kingdom are open to you.”

“What about you,” asked Bilbo softly.

“What?”

Bilbo swallowed nervously. “Is that what you want? For me to stay here?”

“I…Yes. I’d like you to stay. With—with me. If you’ll have me.”

Bilbo blinked, hoping that meant what he so wanted it to mean. “You mean—“

“I have greatly admired you for some time, Bilbo.” Warmth crept into the dwarf’s gaze. "Never have I met a braver soul, nor one so kind or _good_. You must know of my regard for you. I greatly desire your company. However much of it you wish to give me I will be content with, but...there is much of you I desire." He coughed, eyes dark even as a blush crept across his cheeks. "Please, think on it. If my advances are unwelcome you need only say and I shall never trouble you with them again. But please, consider it. Consider staying here.”

“I—“ Bilbo started to say, hardly able to believe this was real and not some wild fantasy he had stumbled into.

“Think on it,” insisted Thorin . He pressed a chaste kiss to Bilbo’s forehead, the brush of his beard and warmth of his lips rendering the hobbit immobile. “Goodnight Bilbo.”

Slowly Bilbo came back to himself, finding that _no_ he had not died and _yes_ he was awake and not caught in some lovely daydream. Thorin’s thick fur was still wrapped around his frame.

With a shaky hand he reached up, feeling the spot on his forehead that Thorin had kissed.

That had happened.

That was really real and had really happened and Bilbo was _standing here in the cold like a sodding idiot and doing nothing about it!_

He dashed back inside, heart swelling joyfully in his chest as he ran.

~*~

The hallway of the royal wing was dark save for a few lanterns hung along the walls. Bilbo stood on the cold marble floor, staring at the elaborate doors to Thorin’s chambers. He could just make out a faint light from the gap underneath.

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo pulled the fur closer and gave three firm knocks, his knuckles smarting on contact with the unforgiving stone.

Heart thumping in his chest, he stood there in the hallway, straining for any sound of life within. It hadn’t been that long since they had been out on the balcony. No more than a quarter hour surely.

Footsteps sounded from within the room, and Bilbo drew himself up, tense with anticipation.

The door swung open.

Thorin stood in the doorway. His hair was freed from the elaborate braids it had been done up in for the feast, the intricate armour and heavy robes he’d worn discarded for a comfortable tunic. It left him looking much softer, more real somehow, the light from a fireplace behind him shrouding him in a soft orange glow.

“Bilbo,” breathed Thorin.

“I ah...” He cleared his throat, standing tall. “I didn’t return your fur.”

Thorin shook his head. “You didn’t have to." 

“May I come in?” asked Bilbo, shifting on his feet. 

Mutely the dwarf nodded, pulling the door open wider. Only once the door was firmly shut behind him did Bilbo turn and face him again.

“I’ve thought on what you said.”

“Have you?” Thorin's voice was soft. “You need not answer tonight.”

“I don’t—I don’t need more time. If you hadn’t run off like that I would have told you on the balcony!” scolded Bilbo without any real heat.

“Ah.” 

“Thorin.” He met Thorin’s gaze steadily, mustering his courage. “I want to stay.”

Hope flared in the dwarf’s eyes. “You do?”

Bilbo nodded. “Very much. And I--I want to stay with you. I want _you_ , Thorin. Whatever or, ah, however much you're willing to give.”

Thorin stared, a slow look of wonder crossing his face. “Truly. You do?”

“Yes, yes you great lump!” Bilbo laughed. He trailed a hand up Thorin’s arm, squeezing encouragingly. “I've grown awfully fond of you, Thorin. And I’ve, ah…desired you for quite some time as well, you know.”

The dwarf’s eyes darkened. “Have you now?” He asked, voice deliciously low.

Bilbo swallowed. “Just so. And ah…really, I ought to give this fur back.” He let it fall open just a bit wider. “Don’t you think?”

Thorin froze, eyes widening as he took in the bare skin where the coat gaped open at the hobbit’s neck, his bare calves glowing in the firelight.

Well, he was half Took after all. 

It had been a bit of a gamble, showing up wearing the King's furs and nothing else, and yes, he hadn't wanted to think on what would happen if he were turned down. Ill advised maybe, but so very worth it for the look on Thorin's face.

“If you’re interested …” began Bilbo, trailing off at the clear hunger in Thorin’s eyes, _want_ written all over his face as he stared transfixed.

“If I’m interested,” echoed Thorin incredulously. “ _Bilbo_. How could I not be?”

“Oh. Oh good. Now touch me _please_ , or I really will leave this mountain.”

Thorin approached him reverently, dark eyes drinking in the sight of him clad in his furs and nothing else. He stopped, hand reaching out to just brush at the fur near his neck. “May I..?”

“ _Please_.”

Bilbo’s eyes fluttered as one large hand reached out and cradled his jaw so carefully. A large thumb stroked his cheekbone, sending tingles all through his body. Thorin was so warm. His other hand slowly peeled back the fur, revealing his soft chest to the light of the fire. 

Thorin groaned at the sight, dropping to his knees heavily and running his rough hands up through the gap in the fur, up his stomach to cup the supple flesh around his nipples. Gasping, Bilbo swayed, hands clutching at Thorin’s shoulders for support.

“Beautiful,” the dwarf murmured, rubbing his face against the soft, plump flesh of his belly.

“Oh! Thorin!” 

His legs were trembling, turning to jelly under the gentle onslaught of the drag of a beard followed by a sharp nose over his unmarked skin.

On their own accord, his fingers buried themselves in the dwarf’s dark hair as they had longed to do for months, marveling at the unexpected softness. Thorin moaned at the feel of those clever fingers in his hair, nuzzling further into the warm softness and delighting at the muffled giggle it elicited.

“Perhaps we ought to take this to the bed?” suggested Thorin, breathing against his hip.

“Definitely,” agreed Bilbo.

~*~

“M’ sorry.”

Thorin lent down and pressed a sloppy kiss to his curls “I’m not.”

“No, not that.” Bilbo yawned, rolling over to watch Thorin move about the room. He made a very pleasant picture, thick hair covering his body like a pelt, the inkings on his chest and arms visible in the light of the low fire. “Falling asleep like that. Terribly bad manners.”

“You were barely out for more than a few minutes.”

“Still.”

There was something so delightfully luxurious about the press of furs against his bare skin. He stretched, indulging in the sheer pleasure of it. 

“I considered it a compliment to my skills.”

“Oh, don’t let it get to your head,” grumbled Bilbo, sticking his tongue out.

Thorin grinned, eyes tracking over the love bites he’d left over the hobbit’s body. “Are you unsatisfied?”

“No no! Er…well.”

“Are you?”

“It’s only—well, I’ll need to see more from you Mister Oakenshield. Before I can be _really_ sure, you understand?”

“Ahh, I see how it is.” Thorin crawled onto the bed, gathering the hobbit close. Bilbo snuggled back into him happily, delighting in the scratch of body hair against the soft skin of his back.

“MmmHmm.”

“Well then, Master Baggins,” rumbled Thorin, low and dark with promise. “I shall do my utmost to rise to the occasion.”

Bilbo smirked, wiggling his toes happily. “See that you do.”

“But perhaps no more tonight. It is late, and my hobbit needs his rest.”

“You know, the past three days I’ve been woken up far earlier then I’d like to.”

“Have you now?”

“First that guard bringing me my new coat, then that gorgeous singing you all did at the dead of night, and then—well, bit of a bad dream that was all.”

“I’m sorry. Your comfort is one of my top priorities.”

Bilbo snorted into the furs. “Ridiculous.”

“I have it on good authority that hobbits require comfort and merriment for their well-being.”

“Company too,” muttered Bilbo with a suggestive wiggle, sleep beginning to pull at him.

“Which may I be so blessed as to provide you with.”

“Flatterer.” Bilbo snuffled, pressing a kiss to Thorin’s large hand. “It has to be _good_ company, so I’m afraid you’re quite stuck with me. Can’t think of anyone I’d rather be with.”

“Bilbo?”

“Mmm.”

“May I court you?”

“Mmmmm. Only if you let me court you back, you great lovely thing.”

The arms around him tightened, pulling him closer. Kisses rained on his curls, down his neck and shoulder.

“ _Sangivashel_ ,” whispered Thorin, reverently placing one last kiss to his brow.

“Silly old dwarf,” murmured Bilbo, snuggling close.

From where he was laying he could see the snow outside falling thick and heavy. Oin had warned of a storm coming, and it seemed this was it.

Bilbo yawned, snuggling further down into the furs and the warm body behind him. The mountain was thick and strong, the dwarves, elves and men all safely within its domain. The storm would do them no harm.

The arm around his waist tightened, fingers gently spreading across his belly, full and sated. Things had been awful, truly terribly awful after the battle. But now they could heal, and life could begin again.

And Bilbo happily lost himself in the warm embrace, more comfortable here then he had ever been.


End file.
